


time and time again

by hobbitual



Series: D/s Hydra Husbands [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Frottage, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possessive Behavior, Sick Character, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitual/pseuds/hobbitual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>please enjoy this installment! id love to know what you thought :^)</p>
    </blockquote>





	time and time again

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Снова и снова](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8082910) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> please enjoy this installment! id love to know what you thought :^)

“What is this?”

Jack has been reading a book for the better part of the last hour. His reading glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, and at the unprompted question, he looks over the rim at the figure of Brock in the doorway to the kitchen.

Brock looks absolutely wrecked. The drug did more than a number on him, giving him a headache that hadn't subsided by the time Jack had left him to sleep it off. There are dark circles under his eyes, indicating Brock didn't get much sleep at all, and a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. He's propping himself up against the door frame, looking like a strong gust of wind could knock him over.

“What's what?”

Jack really has no idea what Brock is talking about, so when an unidentified projectile comes flying at him from a white-knuckled grasp, he almost gets it right between the eyes. Fortunately, Brock is weak enough that the force of his throw isn't strong enough that Jack can't catch it deftly in the palm of his hand. It takes a second for his senses to catch up with his brain, but at the familiar feeling of the rectangular tube, all of Jack's thoughts screech to a halt.

How the _fuck_ did Brock find the lipstick?

As the gears turn in Jack's head, desperately trying to find a suitable reaction to this completely unbidden situation, the sound of Brock angrily panting gets increasingly louder. Jack focuses his gaze, taking in the sight of Brock really fighting to hold himself up now; his arms are shaking where he's holding onto the door frame and the bend to his knees makes him look like a newborn deer trying to stand on its own legs.

“Why,” Brock pants, “do you have lipstick in your fucking bedroom?”

Jack is dumbstruck, completely taken aback; it's not just that Brock found the lipstick. The way Brock is struggling to even stand right now, the effort it must have taken for him to get out of bed, and he's still finding the energy to shoot daggers at Jack with that furrowed brow and those fiery eyes – it's almost breathtaking.

Jack isn't quick enough to reply, and he can hear when Brock inhales in preparation to ask him again, or possibly to spit out more expletives. The wheels finally start turning in Jack's brain, allowing him to come up with the best explanation he can give under the circumstances.

“A girl must have left it here,” Jack says, nonchalantly. “You know how women are, always leavin' shit for you to find a week later.”

Brock's angry panting stops at that. It sounds, Jack thinks, like he's stopped breathing entirely. He's looking at Jack with an expression that's impossible to read. Jack likes to think he knows all of Brock's expressions, but this one – he can't tell if it's confusion, surprise, dismay, or all of the above. Brock licks his lips, pink tongue wetting the dryness there.

“You –” Brock starts, but stops to take a deep breath. When he continues, he speaks slowly and enunciates every syllable. “You fuck women.”

“I do,” Jack responds, just as slowly. “Always have.”

The color drains from Brock's face so quickly, Jack is ready to put the current topic of conversation aside for a whole new one. Unfortunately, that thought gets derailed when Brock's legs decide to give up on him entirely and send him crashing to the floor. He loses his grip on the door frame, hands sliding down the wood on the descent, and Jack cringes at the obvious friction burn to Brock's palms. Jack gets up quickly, taking his glasses off to set them on the counter and striding over to crouch down in front of Brock, putting his hands around Brock's waist to steady him.

Brock's on his knees, legs splayed on the tile and bracketing his hips. His head is down, unstyled hair hanging down into his face and blocking his eyes from view. One of his hands is still on the door frame, the other flat against the cold tile.

Jack ducks his head down, trying to catch Brock's eye. He can hear Brock panting, breathing labored. Unsuccessful with getting any eye contact, he tightens his hold on Brock's waist to keep him from falling any further.

“What the hell just happened? You shouldn't be out of bed. Let's get you somethin' to drink and –”

The rest of Jack's sentence is cut off by a quick, albeit weak, right hook to the jaw. It doesn't hurt much, really just stings, but Jack hadn't expected it at all; maybe if Brock were healthy, but he's as weak as a kitten from the side effects of the drug right now. So why – ?

Brock attempts to punch him again, but Jack is ready for it this time. He catches the impact of Brock's fist in the palm of his hand, and when he looks at Brock again, he gets the eye contact he was looking for.

Brock looks mad enough to spit nails. Even sick and weak like this, he's still got enough fire in him to glare at Jack like he's got the strength to attempt to kick his ass. His teeth are clenched, muscles twitching in his jaw, and his eyes are watering from the pain of the friction burn when he'd slid down the door frame but his gaze is as clear and bright-eyed as ever.

“You fucking,” Brock grits out through his teeth, “ _prick_.”

Jack looks at him, expression a combination of bewildered and impressed at the reserves of strength Brock's managed to tap into. “You're gonna have to give me more than that, honey,” Jack says, smirking slightly to cover up his confusion.

“Don't call me that!” Brock yells, launching himself off the ground and barreling into Jack's chest. “You _fuck,_ you fucking cunt, don't –”

Brock doesn't finish the rest of his sentence, choosing instead to grapple with Jack against the tile. He manages to get Jack entirely under him, straddling his waist and pinning Jack to the ground with his weight, successful only for Jack's complete surprise at Brock's sudden physical violence.

Brock is yelling again, a volley of “fuck you” and every name in the book flying out of his mouth at Jack. Jack lets him get it out of his system, arms at his sides on the floor, until Brock starts slapping him across the face, alternating between an open palm against one cheek and a backhand against the other. Jack takes charge then, grabbing Brock and easily flipping them both over into a reversed position with Jack straddling Brock's waist.

“Get off me! Get the fuck – you're not – get _off_ , you son of a bitch!”

Brock shoves his hands into Jack's face, trying to push his fingers into Jack's mouth and shoving at his face in what seems to be a bid for escape. When Brock successfully gets his thumb in Jack's mouth and between his teeth, Jack bites down. Brock makes a pained sound at that, high pitched and mewling, and Jack feels momentary pity – until Brock takes to trying to claw Jack's eye out with his other hand.

Jack grabs both of Brock's wrists, slamming his arms down and above his head. He keeps them in place with one hand, using the other to grasp Brock's neck and squeeze tightly. Brock swallows reflexively, but there isn't much he can do anymore.

“Stop,” Jack says, voice loud and tone final.

“Fuck you,” Brock gasps, locking gazes with Jack and telegraphing his anger through his eyes. “ _Fuck_ you, you asshole.”

Jack growls in his throat and brings his head down, pressing his forehead against Brock's. This close, theirs lips are almost touching and Jack can feel Brock's harsh breath against his lips. Jack bares his teeth in a snarl.

“You're goin' to stop. You're goin' to tell me what the _fuck_ is happening right now. Understand me?”

Brock doesn't respond right away. His breathing isn't as harsh – he sounds less like he's panting and more like...

Jack lifts his forehead off of Brock's to look down into his face, and what he sees is enough to send a stab of regret into his heart.

Brock looks absolutely pitiful. His lip is wobbling, his eyes are full of tears that are dangerously close to falling, and there are spots of color in his cheeks while the rest of his face is pale. As Jack stares at him, he hiccups once. The hiccup turns into barely contained sobs that leave his shoulders shaking with the force of holding them back.

“Brock –” Jack starts, but Brock cuts him off.

“You're hurting me,” Brock says, voice high. He sounds painfully young. “You're squeezing my wrists too hard, you're – please? Stop, Jack, please? I'll be good. Let go, please?”

Jack is completely taken aback for the second time, the whining quality to Brock's voice rendering him unable to think for a few seconds. He looks down at Brock, feeling the sympathy and regret showing in his face. He lets go of Brock's wrists, ready to bring his hand down to cradle Brock's cheek and wipe away his tears with a thumb.

He realizes a second too late that he's been played for a goddamn fool.

Brock takes advantage of his freed wrists and, with a surge of energy that both of them are surprised by, Brock flips Jack over so he's on top once more. This time, he's made deft work of Jack's own wrists, pushing them behind Jack so he falls on top of them and effectively traps them underneath his own weight. Sitting triumphant on top of Jack, Brock smirks down at him. The image is marred slightly by the tears that have finally started to fall and drip down Brock's cheeks.

“You can't – you fucking _can't_ ,” Brock growls. “You're not gonna get away with this, you asshole.”

Jack opens his mouth to retaliate and ask again what Brock is talking about, but his intake of breath is halted by Brock grinding their pelvises together.

“Fuck you,” Brock is mumbling, almost to himself. “You can't. You – _shit._ God fucking damn it.”

Brock is rolling his hips down into Jack's own, pushing his palms flat against Jack's chest to steady himself. Jack can feel Brock's erection through the layers of their clothing, and he feels his own cock stirring at the friction.

“What – Jesus, Brock –” Jack starts, but Brock slaps a hand across his mouth.

“Shut up,” Brock spits. “You don't get to – just shut up.”

Jack nods slightly, and Brock takes his hand off of his mouth. He moves it back down to Jack's chest, feeling and squeezing the muscles of his pecs. He's still grinding down against Jack, slightly picking up speed.

Brock keeps it up for a few minutes, until both of them are unbearably hard. Brock is flushed from his neck to the tips of his ears, and Jack is feeling a flush in his own face.

When Brock reaches down to unbuckle Jack's belt, Jack opens his mouth, but a sharp glare from Brock makes him snap his mouth shut with a click of teeth. Brock frees Jack's cock from his pants, pulling down his own pants enough to do the same. He brings their cocks together, fingers tight around the base.

Brock thrusts, a choked off moan making its way out of his throat at the feeling of their hardened flesh sliding together. There's precome from both of them, mixing together, making things slick and wet. His grip is tenuous and he almost loses hold, but grips even tighter than before, digging his nails into Jack's cock. Jack grits his teeth at the pain, not allowing himself to make a noise. He glares at Brock, getting an angry smirk in return.

Jack lifts his hips, wordlessly asking Brock to continue. Brock complies, increasing the speed and force of his thrusts. He manages to keep his grip tight this time, but as his panting starts up again, Jack can tell he's quickly losing whatever strength he has left, the burst of energy from earlier almost depleted.

Unable to hold himself up with his arms anymore, Brock lets his arms give out. His upper body collides with Jack's, their chests pressed together. Brock pushes his face into the crook of Jack's neck, nosing at Jack's pulse point. He's lost hold of their cocks now, choosing to wrap his arms around Jack's shoulders as best he can with Jack against the floor. He's thrusting wildly now, their cocks failing to create any friction together more often than not. Jack can see Brock's feet sliding against the floor as he loses control of his body the closer he gets to coming.

Before he comes, Brock's entire body gets as stiff as a board. Jack feels him start to shake, and then his cock is shooting come, hot and sticky all over Jack's balls. Jack hears and feels Brock groaning into his neck, and as he bites Jack's neck with sharp teeth, he growls “ _mine_ ,” sucking a mark into Jack's neck as the force of his orgasm overcomes him. The feeling of Brock's teeth deep in the flesh of his neck is enough for Jack's cock to jolt, shooting his own hot come against his belly.

They lay together on the floor for a few minutes after, both of them panting in sync. Brock makes a soft noise in his throat and rolls off of Jack to lay on the tile next to him. With the weight off of his chest, Jack can free his arms from underneath him. The rush of blood into his numb limbs is harsh, ruining the calm and sated feeling his orgasm had brought.

Jack looks over at Brock laying next to him, and any feeling of calm is quickly replaced by alarm.

Brock looks as sick as he did before the events of earlier transpired, all of the fight having left his body. He's clutching his head, showing Jack that the headache is back in full force. He's shaking, but from pain rather than pleasure. Jack pushes himself up with his hands, ignoring the jolt of discomfort in his still-asleep limbs.

Jack scoops up Brock into his arms, making to carry him back into his bedroom and _making_ him sleep off the side effects. Brock pushes weakly at his chest, presumably to get his attention.

When Jack looks down, Brock is halfheartedly glaring up at him.

“You should have fucking told me.”

Jack's breath catches at the irony of that statement, how it's almost a double entendre.

“Yeah,” Jack says, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry.”

He definitely dodged a bullet this time.


End file.
